


Seen the Sky In Front Of You

by MooseFeels



Series: Five for Fifteen Hundred [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Cinderella, Appalachia, Ghost!Castiel, Ghosts, Male Cinderella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-26
Updated: 2014-02-26
Packaged: 2018-01-13 20:35:47
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,500
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1239928
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MooseFeels/pseuds/MooseFeels
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Times are hard and that means Dean won't be going to the Winter Social for a second year in a row.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seen the Sky In Front Of You

The music streams out of the hall and into the night. The sounds of dancing and laughter punctuate it, voices like extra notes in a song.  It follows the golden light of the lamps and the fire inside, painting bright yellows onto the cold, crisp snow. Behind him, not too far, the snow turns blue with moonlight and then black with the forest. An endless plain of color, a sea of it.

He looks to his side.

“I don’t think this is such a good idea,” Dean murmurs.

He’d wanted to go at first. Really. Would have done anything for it. See, Sam’s going to go in there and he’s going to dance (badly, too) in his finest Sunday suit and shoes and he’s going to just charm the ever loving socks off of that Jess girl with the blonde curls and sharp tongue and big laugh. They’re going to dance all night and it’ll be great.  And that’s what Dean wants for him, really. He wanted to go, too, but the thing is, between the seed for the garden and the farm and the plow breaking and then the roof springing a leak and then-

Little things and big things, they added up and it was more important that Sam have Sunday clothes, what with him still going to church and all than Dean having new shoes anyway. And he didn’t have a great constitution (just like Ma) so it was important that he have a good coat. And he was so tall and so thin, so it was more-

“Dean,” the spirit beside him murmurs. “You look great in your clothes. Really. I wouldn’t lie to you.”

He’d been resigned to staying at home again. He’d missed last year’s Winter Social and he’d never been a very good clogger anyway but then something had happened.

See, he’d been cleaning out the ashes in the fireplace (because why burn the wood and the coal when it was just him) when something had appeared unto him. A vision. A vision that just keeps happening.

Something terribly familiar, but he can’t quite figure out why.

A vision made of clear blue light. A man with bright eyes and a comforting face and a soft smile, made in blue light. He’d known his name and everything.

Still scared him ‘bout to death, anyway.

Dean looks over at him now, as they stand in front of the hall.

“Do you have a name?” he asks.

The man, the angel, he turns his head. “Castiel,” he answers. “I have been called Castiel.”

“Well, look, Cas- you don’ mind if I call you Cas, do you? Cas, look, this has been swell and these clothes you whipped up for me out the fireplace are nice and everything and the shoes are great but I’d really rather go home than go in there and-”

“You don’t look like a fool,” he interrupts, completely taking the wind from Dean’s sails.

He flusters a little bit. “Well, I mean, gosh, Cas, thanks. But these clothes, they’re not- I don’t know.”

He adjusts his collar. The coat is to his knees and made of fine grey wool. He has a fine cotton shirt on underneath, clean and unstained by sweat and work. His pants are new, too, with a sharp crease all the way up to his suspenders. He can practically see his reflection in his dang shoes.

He looks back at Castiel. He doesn’t seem too bothered by the cold- his own shirtsleeves are rolled to the elbow and his collar is unbuttoned, showing off his collarbones. He doesn’t wear shoes, either. His wild, dark hair sticks up in every direction. Made of  blue light, almost like crystal.

He looks a little pained. Broken hearted. Sad.

“You don’t remember, do you?” he asks, so softly.

Dean scratches his scalp, or he starts to and stops when he feels the thick pomade greasing it back. He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t think I do,” he answers.

Castiel smiles, so tenderly. So gently.

“Last year,” he says. “You were supposed to meet me. We were supposed to dance. I was bad at speaking- a stutterer. Something happened, though, your brother was-”

“The pneumonia,” he says. “I had to take care of him, he would have-”

“I know,” Castiel interrupts. “I know.” He looks away. “I didn’t know then. Probably would have been a little more careful going across the ice.”

And Dean remembers, suddenly. Sharply, terribly. He’d asked him when he was in town to buy needles and maybe cast an eye over some lard. His low, nervous voice, slow and deliberate. Asking him if he’d be there. If maybe he’d share a dance for him.

“No one told me,” Dean says.

Castiel shrugs. “My brothers all died in the war. It’s just Father now, really, and he was never one for talking.

A whole lifetime of memories wash over Dean. Watching Castiel in Sunday school, clumsy fingers with the chalk and slate. His barefeet in the cool, clear creek. His round face becoming sharper and thinner as time went on, becoming more and more serious and grown. His dark hair wilder. His blue eyes brighter, sadder, sweeter. The way he would sing to himself when he was sure no one could hear him. The way his hands were gentle over the wounds of animals. The story of the time he walked seven miles in a blizzard to get to Widow Harvelle’s to help her daughter give birth to her first child. His fingertips resting a long time over the tops of the flowers in the spring. His serious voice, only speaking in a rare while. Only calling attention to himself in a rare while.

Dean remembers hearing about the funerals, too, but he’d never realized that Michael and Gabriel- the only war dead other than Dean’s own father- were Castiel’s brothers. Maybe he would have gone to the service.

He doesn’t even remember having a name to give Castiel, his face and soul constant though it was.

He maybe never would have known, but it’s a funny old world, ain’t it?

He extends his hand outward. “Cas,” he says. “Would you do me the honor of a dance?”

Castiel looks at Dean’s hand, turning pink in the cold, dry air. He smiles. “I would love to,” he answers.

They step inside,and it’s like he’s solid again. A real body of real color, with blood in his cheeks and everything.

So pretty.

He smiles at Dean again, and Dean can’t help but smile back.

The music starts back up, and they don’t feel any real need to move to the center or do anything too fancy. Dean’s not any good and Castiel’s not much better, but they do swing and reel, damn near without any weight. And the song finishes and Castiel smiles and Dean grabs him for another dance.

And to both of their surprise, they dance all through the night.

It’s winding down and people are beginning to leave when Castiel pulls him back outside and looks at the hall and looks at Dean’s eyes and says, “I think I have to go now.”

Dean looks at him and he realizes that he doesn’t want that at all. Even if he’s just blue light, even if he’s just a deep, growl of a voice and assurances, Dean realizes that there is a tenderness and a sweetness to Castiel that his life is empty for.

He frowns. “I just- I just got you,” he says softly.

Castiel smiles like the whole world is breaking and awful and it hurts him and he loves it. He smiles so kindly. So painfully. “You always had me,” he answers. “I just got you.”

Dean leans forward and he kisses Castiel softly, on his pink mouth, pink like the edges of the early apple blossoms. Feels Castiel’s breath on his lips and a terrible fading sensation and then-

Then he’s just blue light again. Blue light and something that shimmers like icicles in the winter dawn on his face. Tears, Dean realizes.

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I’m sorry, you’re so far out here without your coat now, I’m sorry, I couldn’t control it, it just happens.”

Dean’s clothes get a little lighter, too. A little more worn, a little older, a little thinner.

“Hey,” Dean murmurs. “Hey, it’s okay. It’s fine. Do you have to go all the way or-”  
“I’m just like this,” he answers. “I’m just a ghost. Solid one day of the year.”

Dean nods. “Oh,” he says. “Well, okay.” He leans forward, looks at Castiel seriously and says, “Well, we’ve got next year, okay?”

And Castiel smiles again. Settles a little closer to Dean and says, “Button your coat, you’ll catch your death out here.”

Dean laughs. The church bells ring out midnight over the mountains, high and clear. Dean pulls his collar up around his neck and starts the long walk home.

He feels weightless.

 

 


End file.
